


i love everything about you that hurts

by dreadedlaramie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Endverse, M/M, there's knives there's blood there's feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadedlaramie/pseuds/dreadedlaramie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time, Dean hands Cas the knife from his belt and says "go to town".</p>
            </blockquote>





	i love everything about you that hurts

The first time, Dean hands Cas the knife from his belt and says "go to town". The first time, Cas' hands shake and his touch is reverent and far too light. Because some habits are hard to break and Cas looks at the thin feathery lines of blood like he's seeing god (he stopped thinking in divine capitals a long time ago). He's shaking and it has nothing to do with fear, or the Adderall he took to counteract the codeine. The first time, Dean puts his hand over Cas' on the knife, presses down hard and drags. The serrations dig in and there's a three-inch cut down Dean's chest and it's the most beautiful thing Cas has ever seen. "Like you mean it," Dean says, and it's the decisive tone he uses for mission plans (or, well, that tone if it were dark-eyes rapid-breath wanting). Oh.

Cas doesn't bother with worrying about the line between enough and too much after that. He wonders how far he could go before Dean stopped him, how far he wants to go. If Dean cares about that line any more. If he ever did.

There's an art to this, Cas knows, and a level of performativity rivalling the new-age orgiastic presentations. He goes across the cut Dean made, one two three, quickly but much harder than before, and Dean gasps each time, the tip of the blade dipping in to hit against freshly exposed muscle. Runs the point of the knife down Dean's neck, pressing just barely hard enough to break skin, to his hip. Dean follows the knife with a look that's feral and starving and desperate, watches the line of blood that wells up along behind the blade like a contrail. Cas presses even harder, draws up across Dean's hipbone-- there's a part of him that wants to cut to bone, past it, see if he's allowed to go that far (what he really wants is to know Dean from the inside out again).

The million gasps and sighs and groans, the way Dean keeps shifting under Cas, hard and impatient; how Cas' hands aren't shaking but his breath is, how Dean looks when he’s bloodied up and wrecked-- Cas is dizzy with it, and when the world blurs at the edges and wavers like gasoline fumes it's not entirely because of the drugs in his system.

Four cuts across the one on his hip, one down his sternum one across, another two parallel to his collarbone-- Dean is saying "please" over and over and over again under his breath and Cas thinks that he's going to vibrate out of his skin (and he doesn't need to ask-- wouldn’t, anyway-- to know that he's the only one blessed with seeing Dean like this-- praise be unto Him our Lord-- and that hits him low in the gut and he's breathless).

He leans down to kiss Dean, bites to draw blood and re-splits Dean's lip (and Cas isn't sure he'll ever get over the way skin bruises and breaks under teeth; a sensation he never really had occasion to experience before Dean had asked Cas to hurt him-- begged, honestly, but Dean would deny vehemently). Dean kisses back desperate and reckless, weaves his fingers through Cas' hair and pulls hard, bites just as hard. Cas pulls away just enough to kiss and bite along Dean's jaw, mouth at his pulse points. He has his teeth on either side of the windpipe, presses just hard enough. Dean groans and Cas feels it reverberate, bites the tiniest bit harder, moves on. He bites along his collarbone-- and these too are meant to bleed, imperfect blue-purple circles ringed with red. The marks always take ages to fade, and the cuts will take even longer to heal, and Cas is nowhere near too proud or prudish to admit that he loves the thought of that, loves that there will be proof that this isn’t some fevered dream, loves the _mine mine mine please mine_ of it all-- the way that whenever Dean is with Risa, or Jane, or anyone else (it really does get difficult to keep track after a while), reminders of Cas will be there, undeniable.

He slides down Dean's body, bruising a trail down his torso, following far too lightly with the tip of the knife. Cas has blood in his mouth and he's not sure how much of it is Dean's and how much is his own and his head is swimming. He scrapes his nails down Dean's sides, ragged edges catching slightly and making Dean hiss. Dean is propped up on his elbows just watching and his eyes are brighter than they have been in ages like something’s ignited in him, just watching the knife and Cas and the slow swell of the cuts and bites. It won't last, never does.

Cas is fast, and dizzying, and good with his hands, good with his mouth, and almost before Dean knows it his jeans are bunched at his knees and Cas' hand is wrapped around Dean's dick. Cas licks a line of wet heat up the length of it, sucks at the tip, and takes him in; he hollows his cheeks and moves just so and curls his tongue just so and Dean moans _just so_. Dean's hand is tight in Cas' hair but he doesn't push down, doesn't feel the bone-deep sense of urgency that always runs through him. Cas is holding Dean down by the hip, setting and _enforcing_ the rhythm. Dean’s hips are stuttering and he’s close he’s so _close_ and Cas puts the heel of his palm over the gash on Dean’s hip and pr _es_ ses h _a_ rd and that’s what pushes him over and he comes so hard he’s shaking. Cas pulls off, swallows to prove a point.

Dean is beatific like this and Cas is awestruck, feels like he never lost his grace or his faith as he halfway reaches out to touch him and oh he hadn’t realised just how much blood he has on his hands. Cas will stitch him up, later, if Dean will let him, light careful touch echoing a moment from what feels like an eternity ago. It's so much different now than what they had then, before the Croatoan virus, before Chitaqua, before the next-to-last night on earth. When a hand on your throat and your heart in crosshairs was a threat and not an invitation. It was different knives back then, edges they hid better, quieter wounds.

**Author's Note:**

> a special and individual fuck you goes out to each and every one of you who didnt stop me from rewatching supernatural


End file.
